fiction

Tokyo Godfathers - holy shit

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The last few days had me rewatching, and in some cases discovering for the first time Satoshi Kon's masterwork animeography in full. 

I was absolutely floored by his 2003 work TOKYO GODFATHERS, one of only two of his works I had not seen previously. The superb characterization and the hauntingly realistic and desolate city landscapes make this an absolute treat. Choosing to focus on detail instead of the usual spectacle, the city becomes all too tangible.  

Tokyo is almost always historically realized as a packed, bright wonder full of flashing lights and bustle, recalling Western interpretations like LOST IN TRANSLATION.  It is fetishized in Western movies.  And that is absolutely part of its identity.

Kon chooses instead, the everyday sights that people who actually inhabit that environment experience; the alley ways, the crevices, corners, the not so wondrous cityscapes and mundane, grey skylines punctuated by the cold, wet snow.  Instead of the Shibuya crossing for example, we get a small corner store, and a drunk asshole who can't stand bums.  

The scenes are rendered in wonderment by their sure realism.  One of my favorite moments was a three shot master through an everyday, ordinary road safety mirror. This is detail; this is knowing the world in which you create.  Maybe I just haven't seen enough anime, but I can't recall many people making this type of choice.  It harkens too a moment in Miyazaki's KIKI'S DELIVERY SERVICE, in which Kiki stays in bed, stretching, pondering a thought.  I had the same feeling at that moment as well, although one was a shot selection, and the other a characterization.  But Kon does both here, and does it damn well.   

This was also one of a few anime films in which a live action remake could easily be achieved. However, this would be a grave mistake because you won't get better performances or a more fantastic ambience then what was achieved here.  The characterization is totally alive.  The tone is spot on.  It goes every which way, and this is not hyperbole.

i could go on and on, but I'll leave it here.  If you haven't seen it, go find it.  Be ready to experience that sense of wonder that appears when form fits perfectly in its container.  But, I'm not a reviewer, and this is the farthest thing from that.  It's just a personal recommendation. But if you didn't like it after being influenced to see it based on this written journal, you just haven't developed the goods yet.  Seriously.  Peace.  

A beautiful example of a master shot that creates the experience.

A beautiful example of a master shot that creates the experience.

 

This is not the Tokyo we are familiar with in modern movies. (at least not me)

This is not the Tokyo we are familiar with in modern movies. (at least not me)

melatonin days - some type of way

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the day was filled with heaps of molasses
brain function, enslaved by an under the influence and angry source
a day where "you just can't fucking do anything"
except think of the scattered-ness of everything
and all worldly things
like an old, cool nikon lens you found in your grandma's attic
that just doesn't focus 
and even though it's kind of hip with that softness, deep down you know
it's only producing shit
but where do you take it
are there such things as camera stores anymore

 

wanderlust

"way to go", was the last thing I heard from her.

it was over, like the proverbial blink of the eye.  no closure, nothing.  the pain, it was excruciating for a bit, but you know what, it was bound to happen anyway.  and I've always wanted to travel.

i was a Sagittarius and she was some other shit.  i forget which it was, maybe the crab or the bull, or whatever, but i know now, that we weren't compatible.

how come i didn't know that at first, like right of the bat. what a shame, a real life shame?  
she was real pretty though.  that part hurts the most, because, well, her personality wasn't as pretty.

technology.

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the woman worked at a bar in little tokyo

and she loved her phone so much

and one day, on a cold and rare rainy night in Los Angeles, she made love through her phone 

but the very next day, the phone broke

and it broke her heart

"love is fleeting" , she concluded

but I think she's a bit immature

park.

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he looked straight ahead, as far as his eyes could see in the middle of the warm summer night.  this was where he spent his childhood.  a park, in the middle of the quietest suburb on planet earth.  the grass felt nice.

it was here that he tasted alcohol, and it was here that he first tried marijuana.  It was here that he saw his best friend Arthur body slam Robbie the bully.  it was here, that he and Arthur would discuss what they would do to girls, had they had the chance.  and this certainly changed from year to year.  drastically in fact.

it was at this location that he lay, sprawled out on the grass, looking up at the sky for countless hours, wondering if life would ever change.  It was here that the legion of emotional experiences tickled his bored soul.

and now, if only he could crawl back into that tiny space, and feel those feelings once more, everything would be ok.

generation gaps.

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“you got some molly?"
“actually no, I don't.  back in my day they called it ecstasy.”
“back in your day, you were young. now your old so shut da fuck up.”
“that’s not nice.”
“neither is your face.”
“so mature.”
“yeah.”
“i got coke though.”
“ok.”

 

your ghost.

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the full moon frightens me.
i remember that last terrifying night.
that one whispering night.  the haunting.
your dead soul.
rummaging for the last morsel.
leaving me option-less.
leaving me hung.
the breath escaping.
the squirming.
that last gasp.
a ghost.
your ghost. 

lessons hardly learned.

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the old man would pull me over and talk to me every time I saw him at the coffee shop.  his subjects were often the same, little nuggets of wisdom we're all familiar with.

most of the time it was a nuisance.  i would make smiley faces, half understanding anything said, as I kept wanting to get on with life, which is code word for work.  

and most grating of all, this ritual kept me away from coffee.  i mean, that's the main reason I came, and my cravings would erupt in quiet desperation.  i would start resenting everything.  why the hell do i do this to myself every damn time?  why do i come here knowing this is going to happen with 100% certainty. 

but recently, he hasn't been coming in.  and life has gotten more uncomfortable without his greetings. and life is never 100%.

 

the coat of color reddish.

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Michelle’s favorite coat was a tint of red.  I can get specific about the type of red it was.  But, I don't want to. I mean, I'm sure there is an exact name for that red.  Like all those goddamn house paints with those silly names you find at Home Depot, or some place as dreadful.

I just know, let's say, I can tell you, non subjectively that it was a hue of red.  Or tint of red.  What's the difference?  I can see that you're already signaling me to “Google” it.  But no thanks, I like my world with a bit of mystery.  Plus, Google has clocked me watching porn one too many times.  iI’s embarrassing and I don’t trust them. 

I mean, I get it, all this business about the specific color of a coat, it’s a small detail.  But that's what I remember.  Maybe that's all I really remember of Michelle.  Michelle was a coat to me.  A bit harsh, and selfish, and chauvinistic, but, if you're looking for the truth, yeah, that's what sticks out.  If you don’t like my feelings for Michelle and her red toned coat, big whoop, sue me Larry H.  

We slept around for a bit.  Totally causal.  She never asked me more then four questions or so.  She was a cocktail waitress on the lower east side.  Oh, i remember now, it's coming to me.  she was pretty cute too.  Not a real knockout, but, plenty cute.  So, Michelle, cute, reddish coat, minimal talking.  

Whatagirl man. Whatagirl.